


My Love, Take Your Time

by bastard_whoreson



Category: Alexander Hamilton - Ron Chernow, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hamliza, Lams - Freeform, M/M, almost, burr has survivors guilt, but also fluff so please don’t kill me, but it had to be done, but there is goodness somewhere i can see it, either one really, half of this is flashbacks, i dont cry, if you don’t like war maybe don’t read, insp. from a fanart that almost made me cry, its a long flashback tho don’t worry, just know that some of it takes place in the war, lams but its a flashback, lotsa hamliza goodness, nevermind i don’t know how to tag, not a lot of goodness, okay time for real tags now, or big boy pants, pull up your big girl panties, serves him right for shooting the guy, theres LOADS of angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-21
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-17 00:13:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11263977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastard_whoreson/pseuds/bastard_whoreson
Summary: Inspired by a beautiful work of fanart that *almost* made me cry (I shall link it oNcE I FIND THE ****** ******* THING), it was Hamilton comforting Eliza on his own death bed, so if anyone wants to scavenge the interwebs for me…~~~~~Weehawken. Dawn. Guns. Drawn.That was all that was supposed to happen.Fire in the air, return home to a beautiful wife and children, feud over.That was all that was supposed to happen.So where did he go wrong?~~~~~This work takes you through the routine nature of the duel and the panic of the slaughter, before plucking the story line from the chaos and planting it right in the middle of Alexander and Eliza’s happiest memories. The only trouble is, it doesn’t seem to want to stay in that ‘happy place’.





	1. I Imagine Death So Much It Feels More Like A Memory

**Author's Note:**

> New chapters (at least) every Friday! I might post more during the week depending on my fluctuating work ethic though, lol  
> Thanks y'all,  
> ~A.C.  
> [EDIT: aha okay so I flat out lied about the every friday stuff....imma keep working on this, but I'm just trying to get over writer's block. I PROMISE it's not dead, and sorry for abandoning it for a while]

####  **July 14th, 1804**

_I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory_

 

Pain is one of only two invariable aspects of human nature. This is the truth.

There stood a woman in front of a headstone, weeping for her husband. A steady trickle of tears had begun cascading down the hollows of her cheeks a long time ago, but only now were they mingling with the hazy sprinkling of rain. Splintered hope and reinstated sorrow were the only feelings to dart across the thin and tearing surface of her heart. For all other moments, fury and dismay were like little gremlins. The tiny beasts scurried about in the shadows of emptiness, waiting and plotting for when to carry out their most damaging strike. As the intense, stinging sorrow of tears like barbed wire muffled the pitter patter of their feet, it dragged every reminder of what could have been across the raw and trembling carcass that once bore a soul. Cries and wails echoed about the atmosphere, as if reflecting off of invisible planes of glass suspended in the sky. An eerie sense of cruel detachment lingered in the air – the putrid stench of regret and confusion piercing any clear vision one might attempt to grasp of their surroundings.

Love is the other of the two invariable aspects of human nature. This is also the truth.

There sat a man on top of a headstone, pining after his wife. The steady trickling of blood had ceased to spill from the fatal breach in his sickly form a long time ago, but only now was his figure freed of its crimson stains. Desperate longing and the bittersweet of parting were the only fragrances to drift away from the petals of death and dance across the tickling tip of his nose. In the fullness of the moment, pity and fondness were like tiny fairies. Their petite silhouettes dashed about in the gleaming light of freedom, anticipating the best moment to finish their complete distribution of sentiment. As the heavy, loaded complexity of tears like thick draperies diminished the flutter of their wings, it swathed each memory of what used to be down the tender and fluttering soul that was once trapped within a carcass. Shouts and calls left silently from his lips, as if dropping dead against an unseen wall erected just beyond his face. A touching aura of merciful freedom floated about – the sweet aroma of relief and peace clearing the foggy perception that once was held hostage by his own mortality.


	2. Best of Wives, and Best of Women

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey! I was going to jump right into the duel, but the softcore angst just had to happen. Sorry, I’m trying a new thing for me called ‘character development’. Thought I’d give it a shot, anyways. In other news, if you’d like to help me not throw away my shot, hit me up on my tumblr (selcouth-aubade) or just slide into my inbox on here to arrange a beta! I’ve said it before, God knows I need one, and just a reminder for you casual folks, this stuff might change. I might add or subtract a paragraph or two sometimes, so make sure you’re subscribed to see when I make changes!  
> Thanks bros and dudettes,  
> ~A.C.

#### July 11th, 1804

 

The soft blue glow of the early dawn illuminated Alexander’s study in delicate streams of light through the slots in the window shutters. He sat at his desk, head buried in his palms, eyes fluttering quickly as a last-ditch attempt to fight the sleep that pulled so fervently at his coattail. The candle set on top of his writing lit up every justification he scribbled onto the parchment, simultaneously casting heavy shadows over any sense of incertitude that may have stopped him from continuing with his plan. This was merely a run-of-the-mill duel; Burr needed a calling out for disparaging the Hamilton name for the umpteenth time, anyhow. Even if it did turn out to be fatal, he made sure that the world would see that his hands were clean in this – neither his legacy nor his family would be harmed.

He let go of his focus suddenly, noticing the wall in front of him glowing in the wake of the dawn. It was plastered in floral wallpaper, an expensive frill that they were _just_ able to afford. Eliza had insisted on it though, and who was he to argue? He was thankful to God every day that he finally made it out of his desolate childhood shack, and into the grand palace of a house that he called a home. A home, with a loving wife, and children and–

“Alexander, come back to sleep,” a soft voice crooned in the darkness of the doorframe behind him. He shifted in his seat to face the sound, the large chair squeaking beneath the motion. Eliza. He could barely make out her face, but he could pick her voice out from a crowd of ten-thousand people. Besides, who else but she would be at the door, begging him to come to bed with her? He put on a happy expression, hiding his own answer to that question. That was behind him, he thought to himself. Anyhow, he was older now; older, and undoubtedly faithful to his wife. God, she was more than he ever could even strive to deserve. This was precisely why he had to continue with this; he had to protect her. He stood up slowly from his place, and strolled over to the very embodiment of innocence standing in the doorway. Smiling again, he delicately placed his hands on her shoulders, reaffirming her with the gesture.

“I have an early meeting out of town,” he responded, bringing her in for a tender hug. Her head rested on his shoulder, his hands in her hair. It was unlikely, but he wanted to make sure she knew she was loved by the man who seldom seemed to, on the off-chance that he could not return home. So he stayed. He stayed there in what felt like an eternity, simply breathing and loving and appreciating and knowing. Knowing that this had to happen; that there was no backing down now. He stiffened his posture and lifted her head up with her cheeks in his hands, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. Eliza shrugged herself away from his grasp, and with a mischievous smile, made a dash to grab his hand to pull him back to bed. All too soon, however, he caught wind of her motives and started for his desk again, dismissing her childish attempt at getting him to go back to sleep. Her grin fell tragically from her face, taking any trace of its presence with it, and she followed him slowly to the place where she knew that any hope for a successful ‘time alone’ – whether it be a night to themselves, or a tender moment before dawn – vanished and ran out through the chimney. She sighed, and watched her workaholic of a husband sit down and continue scratching at the paper, as if his very life depended on it. She came around his backside to place her hands on his shoulders and start rubbing them, it could be a final attempt at convincing him to stay.

“It’s still dark outside,” she muttered, half expecting Alexander to ignore her quiet plea for a single moment together – a single moment away from the rest of the world, a single moment without his damn writing… It proved useless. She let go of him and made her way to the door again, holding herself as a wounded animal, beaten beyond hope. She was stopped by an apologetic call. “I know,” he acknowledged simply, “I just need to write something down.”

Agitated with her husband’s intellectual shenanigans, Eliza let out an exasperated sigh as her arms flew out dramatically from her sides. “Why do you write like you’re running out of time?” she asked, desperately needing an answer for why her husband, _her husband_ , seemed to discard any sentimental displays of affection towards her in exchange for a few dry hours sitting in his study. All she received in response from him was a shush, and by then she had enough. She would use guilt. It was all she had left to use to get him to leave his work for once. “Come back to bed, that would be enough,”

“I’ll be back before you know I’m gone–” Alexander replied, feeling a twinge of remorse in his heart. He had to continue. She would just have to wait, and that would be enough.

“Come back to sleep,” she pleaded once more, giving her whole heart into their first argument in months. Argument? Could one even call it that? This was merely a wife trying to talk some sense into her stubborn husband. It didn’t matter, though, as she had already given up. Alexander would continue working, carrying on as if she wasn’t there. As if the _work_ she was putting into their marriage was worthless.

“–This meeting’s at dawn,” he rebutted, finally ceasing to write tirelessly, and began to pack his things. He quietly withdrew a pistol from the lowest drawer in the desk, and discretely placed it into the case sitting open on the floor next to him. He reached over to arrange the parchment he had been scrawling over earlier, and placed it too into the case. He shut it with a click of the clasps, and picked it up by the handle as he stood up from his chair. With an apologetic look in his eye, he hurried to the door, passing a very defeated Eliza on the way.

“Well, I’m going back to sleep,” she murmured, as Alexander made his way to run out of the house. He caught her lamentations, and began to pity her. He knew he wasn’t the best spouse, but it was better for her to go on thinking that than the family name continue to be belittled. “Hey,” he added, and with a swift motion, took her wrist and guided her hand to be enveloped in his own. “Best of wives, and best of women.”

After that, he kissed the back of her hand, and retreated into the darkness. The darkness, off and away from the tempting comfort of home, and on to the uncertain and unforgiving dueling ground.


End file.
